


Never Forgive, Never Forget

by fireflavored



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-10-22
Updated: 2009-10-22
Packaged: 2017-10-19 03:42:54
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 937
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/196490
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fireflavored/pseuds/fireflavored
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Draco is a Malfoy, and no one should forget it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Never Forgive, Never Forget

Written for this [](http://speedpr0nz.livejournal.com/profile)[**speedpr0nz**](http://speedpr0nz.livejournal.com/) photo prompt 

  
No one can ever know.

The wizarding world must never forgive. Never forget. _I_ must never forget. Sometimes I worry that he has, so I’ll make a point of reminding him. Today may be one of those days.

He’s arrived exactly twenty minutes after I sent the owl, just as I’m stepping out of the shower. Precisely enough time for the owl to make the trip, for him to read the message, to reach for a wand, and to Apparate. I must have caught him still in bed, and he hasn’t even bothered to dress. Today will definitely be one of those days.

His body is still warm from his sheets.

“It’s been a while,” he murmurs, pressing me into the grimy window frame overlooking Charing Cross Road.

“Four days is hardly a while, Potter.”

“It felt longer. I was thinking of you when the owl arrived.” He rubs the evidence of this statement against my towel, groaning like an over-sexed teenager. You’d think a twenty-five-year-old war hero would possess a hair more gravitas. Of course, you’d think a lot of things that aren’t true of Potter.

“So I see. What exactly were you thinking, I wonder?”

My towel is gone and he’s on his knees before I’ve finished the sentence. And there it is. The reason I will keep coming back to this dank, tawdry room week after week. Risking everything we’ve both worked for in the wake of the war. Pressing the boundaries of Hannah Abbott’s discretion.

It’s not the sensation of his warm, soft mouth closing around the head of my cock. Although—don’t misunderstand—that is one of the best things I’ve ever experienced. But, it’s the look on his face as he does it. A look I’ve only ever seen here in this room. He looks peaceful.

The tension fades from the sides of his eyes and his mouth as he slides his tongue down the length of me. In the diffuse light from the filthy window, his skin looks smooth and unmarred. I reach down and touch his face, waiting for his eyes to flutter open and find mine. They are a darker green in this light, with flecks of gold so pale they could be mistaken for the dust motes floating in the beam of light from the window.

He only sucks me down a few times, enough to make me as hard as he is. Then he turns me and buries his tongue in my arse until I’ve surpassed him. When I’m shaking and dripping and begging, I hear the _Accio Oil_ whispered against the back of my balls.

If he makes it hard and fast, I may not have to be cruel. Alas, he begins with one heavily lubricated finger, careful and gentle. He’s feeling sentimental.

“Don’t.”

“No, _you_ don’t. Let me enjoy this, Draco.” Another finger, just as fucking kind as the first. I shove back and he laughs. “All right, then. Have it your way.”

The fingers are hardly out before his cock is pushing in. This is gloriously ungentle. He pins me up against the crumbling brick wall, giving me no time to brace myself against the forceful thrust of entry. I just get my hands between my skin and the wall before his pulls out and pounds back into me furiously.

“How’s this, then?” he grunts, taking hold of my hair and pulling my head back. He loves it when my back is arched like this. It’s an odd little thing of his.

For all his protesting, he doesn’t hold back once he starts. It’s all I can do to hold myself in position, to maintain that arch he enjoys so much. He’s got his mouth pressed up against my ear, so I can hear how his breath catches with each thrust. It’s no accident—he knows I love to hear it. It’s an odd little thing of mine.

Ancient bits of mortar rain down from where his other hand is braced against the wall above my head, covering my chest and hair in grey dust. I’m going to need another shower.

The breath in my ear stops abruptly. He never breathes in the last fifteen seconds before he comes. I brace myself hard with my left hand and reach for my cock with my right. I’ve got maybe ten thrusts left if I want to come with him. And I do. I’m feeling a little sentimental, too.

I’m so fucking close when he pulls out. The instant I feel his come splash against the curve of my back, it’s over. Unlike like him, I breathe when I come. Great heaving, wheezing gasps that I can’t control.

“Oh, fuck, yes,” he hisses into my ear. He’s breathing again, rubbing the last of his erection into the mess he’s made at the base of my spine. I nod, but I don’t speak. This is the part where I can’t breathe.

He bends down and retrieves my towel, using it to gently clean away his mess. He’s forgetting.

“I’ll be out of the country for a week. Don’t expect me.”

His hand stills.

“Where are you going?”

“It’s my father’s birthday,” I lie.

I can practically feel him frowning.

“You’re going to France?”

“I’ll see you in a week.” As I turn towards the shower, I catch sight of his face. He is indeed frowning. All traces of his blissful relaxation are gone. Good…he’s remembering who I am. He must never forget who I am. If he forgets, the rest of them might forget.

And they must never forget.


End file.
